


The Case of the Honourable Correspondent

by BlueFloyd



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Heist, Locked in the Library, Sharing a Bed, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueFloyd/pseuds/BlueFloyd
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Where we are introduced to the protagonists of the story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katherine_tag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/gifts).



We had just come back from our business in Innsmouth when Sherlock fell into a fit of melancholy. Bringing a case to its conclusion often had this effect on him. The tension that had kept him going until the successful execution of a member of one of the Royal Families was gone, and like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut, Sherlock was unable to carry on. The man I had seen single-handedly battling a Soggoth to buy me time to finish laying out the explosives needed to bring down a Dagonite temple, that same man was now unable to feed himself, crushed by the idea that nothing mattered and that no one cared for him. I had tried before to demonstrate to him how wrong he was. It should have been easy. All the evidences were laid out in front of him. But for all his deductive power, Sherlock could not battle the monster that was melancholia with pure reason. It crushed reason flat.

I could not demonstrate to him how much he was cared for, but I could perform the act of caring. I had found that lots of strong tea, a friendly presence in the room and the passage of time were the best medicine for Holmes' condition. We were quartered at the Baskerville estate, our usual hiding place when we were in Albion and in lack of a target or mission. It was located in a remote moorland in the southwest of Albion, away from the prying eyes of Her Majesty's police. The Baskervilles were an old Restaurationist family, intent on freeing Humanity from the tyranny of our Eldritch Royals. They were therefore more than happy to provide Sherlock and I safe harbour whenever we needed it, getting pride in hosting the Restaurationist's Raches. In addition to Restaurationist kinship, the other reason for which Lord Baskerville was fond of having us on the estate was the occasion it gave him to discuss medicine with me, having studied it himself. He had seldom used it, his title and money sparing him the need to work for a living, but he was passionate about the subject and always willing to discuss the latest advances in the domain.

At the time of these events though, the Baskervilles were away in London, and Sherlock and I were alone on the estate. It was autumn in Albion, and the constant drizzle limited us to indoor activities, not that Sherlock would have been eager to roam the moor in his present state. The days were spent more or less the same way. I would wake up at six, a habit from my army's days. Some gymnastic exercises by the side of the bed, a quick toilet in the wash basin, and then on to the kitchen. The Baskervilles had a few servants - all convinced Restaurationists, but I was used to making my own breakfast. Two eggs, some porridge, a steaming mug of strong black tea, and the newspapers, if some had reached the estate lately. I read them out of habit, but could not for the life of me find in them the same hidden meanings that Holmes seemed to discern so easily.

Around seven and a half, I would move to the library. There, I would restoke the fire, or restart it altogether if needed. I had to fight the servants the first few days, to get them to understand that I most definitely wanted to do it myself. I like to keep myself occupied; I've found menial work steadies me. At eight I'd go back to our room with a mug of tea and wake Holmes. I'd cajole him into moving to the library, where I would install him in one of the armchairs with a heavy plaid and some simple food on a gueridon nearby, to encourage him to eat a bit. We would spend most of the day in the library, myself reading and trying to discuss with Holmes, him mostly looking by the window. I'd eat a proper lunch and dinner; Holmes usually moved his food around in his plate and did not eat much of it. I talked to Holmes as much as I could. I gave him snippets of information from the newspapers I browsed, shared my reflexions on the volumes I borrowed from the Baskervilles' library, informed him on the life of the estate. He'd respond occasionally. On the days were the rain stopped, I took a short walk around the estate. Holmes would not accompany me on such occasions, so I did not venture too far, by fear of leaving him alone for too long. We ate dinner in the library as well, a light broth most days, and then Holmes was off to bed quite early. The melancholia tired him to no ends. I would retire at the same time as him, and spend a few hours writing down an account of our previous travels and missions, an historical record of what I hoped would turn out to be the Fall of the Old Ones. Staying in the library in order to do my writing would have been more practical, but that way I could stay with Holmes. In his sleep he would curl up by my side, muttering inaudible words and clutching my bedshirt in his fists with all his strength.

Little by little, Holmes got better. His stamina came back gradually, he responded more and more frequently to my remarks in the library, finally picked up some newspapers himself. Soon he had read and reread each of them. Now that his melancholia was over, the manor started to be too small for him. He accompanied me on my walks, wanting to extend them to the point where it was I who would restrain him, reminding him that my damaged leg would only let me undertake so much effort. I had to let him walk alone, and he was soon outside every day, whatever the weather. He would still wake up late in the mornings, but he stayed up at night, reading his way through the library well after I had gone to bed.

"Watson, wake up! Wake up!" I stirred in the bed. Holmes was leaning over me. A glance at the window confirmed my feeling: it was the middle of the night.

"What's the matter?" I was struggling to get the fog of sleep out of my head. If we had been discovered and needed to escape, I had to be as clear-headed as possible.

"A carriage just arrived, Watson!"

"A carriage?"

"According to the sound of water in the plumbing and the creaks of some distinctive floorboards, the servants started to heat and prepare the master bedroom not five minutes after the carriage arrived. The Baskervilles are here, Watson!"

"The... What? Why, yes, it is their estate. It makes sense that they would come back from London at some point." I pointed out the obvious. "It's the middle of the night, Holmes. We'll meet with them at breakfast, not now."

"Watson, don't you see? It *is* the middle of the night. Twenty to four, to be precise."

"Yes, I just said that. That's why I suggest you let me sleep."

"Why are they here now, Watson? They arrived not twenty minutes ago. On the road from London, Exeter is four hours away, meaning they passed it around eleven o'clock. Why did they not stop there as they usually do, to resume their travels in the morning? Why risk traveling the badly kept roads of the moor at night? They were in a hurry, Watson, that's why. In a hurry to reach the estate. Why so? if they were fleeing something, the estate would not be the place to go, it is known as their residence and difficult to defend. So, they were in urgent need of something located at the manor. What could that be? Documents of importance? Lord Baskerville is quite organized, I trust he would have taken everything he could need with him before departing to London. So, no documents, nothing he would have been able to plan for. The unexpected then. But there is only one unexpected thing here."

"Us."

"Us indeed. The Baskervilles have come to us. And they've come themselves instead of sending a messenger. So, there is something to discuss, something of importance and urgency. I reckon one of the servants would come to wake us up about now."

A knock on the door. Holmes and I exchanged a look. He lifted his eyebrows. Before whoever was on the other side of the door could talk, Holmes uttered. "Tell Lord and Lady Baskerville we will meet them in the library in ten minutes."

A bewildered silence for a few seconds, and then: "Right away, sir." The footsteps receded. I was fully awake by now. I got out of the bed and started to dress.


	2. Where we are introduced to the protagonists of the story

Ten minutes later, we were seated in the library in front of the Baskervilles, while a servant was pouring us all some tea. I would not have minded getting something stronger, a brandy perhaps, but alas Lord Baskerville was a firm believer in drinking only past five o'clock in the afternoon. I studied them briefly while we were all warming our hands around the cups. Lord Baskerville was a tall man in his forties, with a piercing stare, and the eyebrow structure so characteristic of the lineage. He had greying brown hair and worry lines on his forehead. Lady Baskerville was in her fifties, her hair totally grey, and laughter lines around her blue eyes. She hadn't been upper class before the wedding. The Baskervilles only wed Restaurationists, and they were in short supply amongst the gentry. The Baskervilles were of immense value to the Restaurationists. Their wealth had funded many sabotages and Royals executions.

"I apologize for the sudden awakening, gentlemen. But for what we have to discuss, time is of the essence, and...."

"No worries at all, Lady Baskerville. Just tell us what you've learned about the Black One's visit."

"By R'lyeh's streets, Holmes! How did you...?" I was used to Holmes deductive prowesses, even if I was still curious of knowing what reasoning path he had taken. But I also wanted to draw attention away from the roughness he had displayed by interrupting Lady Baskerville mid-sentence.

"Come on, Watson, you've spent the last fortnight reading the papers. Nyarlathotep's diplomatic visit to Albion is all over them. It's certainly all London - and the Restaurationist circles - is talking about. It's only ten days away, so any information about it that we could act upon is time-sensitive. Still, preparations for an event set in ten days wouldn't justify such a hasty trip, so I guess that the information you acquired is about something that has to be done before the Black One's arrival. Am I wrong?"

"Not in a bit. Except we don't have information _per se_ yet. The Honourable Correspondent said they could provide some, but this time they want something in return."

The Honourable Correspondent was the codename of an unidentified person within the Court, feeding intelligence to the Restaurationists. They had done so for years, sending anonymous letters to Restaurationists that we thought were well undercover. At first, we suspected a trap and did not act on the information at all. But everything that the Baskerville were able to check turned out to be true, so we started using them. The Honourable Correspondent had enabled us to take out several of Glorianna's Nephews.

"What do they want?"

"An copy of the Necronomicon."

Silence followed. The Necronomicon was a priceless book. Written in the Dark Ages before the Second Coming of the Ancient Ones, it was said to have spread Their Gospel and hasten said Second Coming. Infused with magic, it contained profound truths about the Royals Families and many Words of Power. Only a handful existed.

"What do we get in return?" asked Holmes.

"Complete detail of the Palace planning and security measures for The Black One's visit. Assuming the information is genuine, that means a real chance of a clear shot at the Black One. But we must secure the Necronomicon and deliver it as soon as possible, so that we have some time to study the intelligence, assess its authenticity and devise a plan."

"Do we even know the location of any copy of the Necronomicon?"

"I suspect that both the Queen's private Library and the British Library host one. Not that it is of public record, but the visits of various scholars to both places strongly suggest so," chimed Holmes. He took a sip from his cup in the ensuing silence. This conversation seemed mostly composed of silences.

"Well, the Queen's is out of question, it would be akin to trying to steal the Crown's Jewels. The British Library might be doable. Getting locked in afterhours and leaving in the morning could do the trick, but we would still have to circumvent the Necronomicon security."

"We would be taking significant risks here. Is it worth it?"

"We have no reason to mistrust the Honourable Correspondent at this point. Nevertheless, we'll make sure to have several flight routes ready for you as well as an assisting team. And in the end, the decision to proceed or not will rest entirely in your hands."

Sherlock turned to me, bright-eyed. "What do you say, John? Shall we steal ourselves a little forbidden book?"

I sighed. How to resist such genuine excitation? And a shot at the Black One... That could mean the beginning of the end for the Royals. Even if the odds were slim, we had to risk it. "Yes. Let's do this."


	3. Where our heroes make all the necessary preparations for their plan.

We had set to London a few hours after this conversation, using the carriage the Baskerville had rode in. The journey had taken most of the day, and it was late at night that we had arrived on the outskirts of London. From there we had continued on foot until we had reached an opium den in the depths of Saint Giles. Opium consumption was encouraged by the Crown, as it helped unleash madness in the human mind, madness that the Old Ones used for sustenance. Nevertheless, places dedicated to opium consumption were often of bad reputation, and no one would pay too much attention to us here. There was a series of small rooms on the upper floor, for the place dabbled in prostitution as much as in drugs. Despite the dubious ethics of anyone operating such a place, the owner was a long term Restaurationist, and it wasn't the first time Sherlock and I had used the den as our base of operations in London. One of the upper rooms had been cleared for us. We settled there. The bed was dirty and only for one person,quite a step down from our room in the Baskerville estate, but better than a lot of places that we had lived in over the years. We wouldn't be there for long anyway. We huddled together on the bed, spooning for warmth and companionship and getting a few hours of sleep before going about our mission.

In the morning, Sherlock went on to inspect the British Library. I would have accompanied him, but he was more inconspicuous by himself, especially given his mastery of disguise. For my part, I was not idle. I went to visit several of my contacts in London, men and women at odds with the law that I had treated for injuries they wanted to keep discreet. Most of them were unaware of my Restaurationist activities and thought of me as a doctor practicing without a license. They owed me favours in return for the medical attention I had provided, and I intended to call upon a few of them, should we need them in the aftermath of our operation. Lord Baskerville had said he would activate Restaurationist cells to provide means of escape, but I felt safer taking the matter in my own hands. Sherlock and I hadn't survived all these years without having failsafes on our failsafes. Anyway, these matters occupied me for the best part of the day, especially given that I was asked to provide some medical treatment to an infected wound on the arm of a gangstress, acquiring in the process a new favour to be redeemed by the Sisters of Lilith - a powerful all-female gang of St Giles.

"So, what is the plan, Holmes?" We were back in our squalid little room, sharing a cup of what passed as tea in the place.

"Getting locked in the library will be quite easy. Security of the public area is quite sloppy, and the building is old, with many nooks and crannies where we can most easily conceal ourselves. There are security rounds, I expect them to be somewhat increased during the night, but nothing we cannot circumvent. That's all that it was possible to observe from the public area, the rest could only be guessed by the process of deduction."

Holmes stopped for a sip of tea.

"Stop putting on a show and do share your deductions, will you?"

A grin appeared on his face. "Very well my dear Watson. The doors to the lowers floors where the Reserve is located are locked, but with locks of types that I'll be very much able to pick. The level of eldritch energies were low, so I'll guess there is no magical security measures. I asked for details of a lesser magical treaty. The library uses the Dewey system in its public area, so I assumed they would use it in the Reserve as well. If so, the magical treaty I asked for would be shelved near the Necronomicon. Given the time it took the librarian to do the trip - and assuming she didn't stop for chatting along the way, but she doesn't strike me as the type, the pattern of cat hair on her shirt indicating evenings spent at home with her cat, which must be in heat since..."

"To the point, Holmes."

"You're the one who asked for my deductions!"

"Limit yourself to the relevant ones."

"The Necronomicon should be located two floors below, or alternatively but less likely, on a far corner of the first floor below."

"Good. So we get in, stay hidden, pick the locks, climb down two floors, get to the book, deal with its security, get back up and in hiding, wait the night, go out with the public during the day."

"That sums it up. We can be at it as soon as tomorrow. What do we have planned in ways of contingencies in case things go awry?"

"I'll have two different cabs waiting in backstreets should we escape during the night. I'll bring on some firepower and more discreet means of disposing of people. Bring your whole set of tools in case we encounter stronger security than expected."

Holmes nodded. We seemed to have the things in order. We ate lightly, then went to bed early. The day's job was done, and we had to be in shape for what was to come.


	4. Where our heroes steal a book

The next day, we entered the library at 3pm. Its closing time was at 5pm. Entering later would have possibly made us more noticeable to the staff, and we wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. We went in separately, at a 15 minutes interval. We sat in the same room, but at different tables. I gathered the latest issues of some medical journals. I might as well make the most of the waiting time. I read a few articles, checking quickly on Holmes from time to time. He had opened a newspaper to keep up the pretense of reading, but I could see he was occupying himself deducing the occupations and whereabouts of the people around us. I started reading a most interesting article on human/Royals interbreeding, when a light touch on my shoulder brought me back to the world.

"Excuse me sir, this was under your seat."

Holmes was in front of me, presenting his watch to me. Absorbed in my reading, I had lost track of time.

"Much obliged, sir."

I pocketed his watch, and he tipped his hat before moving away from me. I put back the journals on their shelves. Closing time was near, I had to hide. I went to the section of the library devoted to agricultural sciences treaties. As planned, the reading room there was small and empty. Thick ornamental curtains flanked the windows. I drew my handkerchief and put it in front of my nose and mouth to fend off the dust. Then I slipped behind the curtains of the nearest window, and sat there cross-legged. Finally, I drew my pocket knife and cut a small hole in front of my left eye so that I could monitor the room. All that was left was to wait. Soon a bell was ringing, signalling closing time. A librarian entered the room soon after, saw no one, and left. Maybe half an hour later, the gaslights dimmed suddenly, before shutting off altogether. I slept a bit. I was able to sleep motionless, a quite useful talent in our line of work. Holmes was not so lucky, he'd have to wait until eleven o'clock awake. We had decided to wait until then before coming out of our hiding places, to limit the risks of running into librarian or guards. I woke around ten and a half. I used the last half hour to eat the small loaf of bread I had brought. It was easier to focus on the task at hand when not starving. Eleven came at last. I observed the room, stood up, and got out of behind the curtain. I dusted myself off and I exited the room. I was on the first floor gallery. I observed the library hall before moving on. No one in sight. The deserted library had an eerie atmosphere. Coming through the skylight, the crimson light of the moon bathed the reading desks and the marble floors.

I had Holmes' watch, so I had to signal to him that the time for action had came. I went to the Epistemology reading room and whispered his name. One of the curtains moved. There he was. He readied himself quickly. Together, we move down the stairs, in the main hall. We silently jumped over the librarian main desk. The sound of some steps coming from one of the corridors froze us in our tracks. We crouched so that the desk would shield us from the eyes of whoever was coming. Slowly, we retreated below the desk and huddled there. I took a lace out of my pocket. If we were discovered, I had to act fast to neutralize the threat. But fortunately it did not come to this. The watchman stopped in the middle of the room. His lantern flashed on the walls as he revolved to take sight of all the room, but he stayed on the other side of the counter. He then resumed his round and left altogether. Sherlock and I got out. I stood watch while he made short business of picking the lock of the Reserve door. Soon we were in the Reserve. The light was scarcer here, with only small windows letting some sparse moonlight in. Rows and rows of shelves filled the space, covered in books. Finding the one we were interested in was going to prove difficult. Sherlock rummaged in his pocket, and got a lighter and a candle out. He stroke the lighter and then we had a light of our own. He examined the nearest shelf.

"Excellent, they seem to use the Dewey classification here too. Such a modern library."

"It is not very much helpful as long as we don't have a map showing how they organized the whole layout of the reserve."

"Think ahead, Watson. Once we will have located the appropriate section, finding the Necronomicon itself will be much simpler. As for the section…" Sherlock knelt and drew a few symbols on the ground with a piece of chalk. He took a miniature opium pipe out of his pocket, lighted it, drew a few lungfuls from it. Holding his breath, he cut his right hand with a small knife and let a few drops of blood fall on his drawing. The chalk seemed to flash in an unknown color. He blew the smoke on the ground. It hung above the drawing, seemingly trapped. Holmes muttered a few words in the unholy language of the Old Ones. I hated when he did that. Holmes fascination with the Old Arts had always unsettled me, and we hadn't talked about using them when discussing our plan for tonight. The room seems to twist around us. He scooped the smoke from the ground, and it stayed in his hand. He turned to me with eyes contracted by the opiates.

"In the name of R'yleh, Holmes. Was this really necessary?"

With his free hand, he pressed mine lightly in reassurance.

"It is the most efficient method, Watson."

In his hand the cloud of smoke had started to flow lazily in one direction, attracted by the strongest source of occult energies nearby. We followed it until we reached staircases in the middle of the room. We went down two floors, like Sherlock had guessed. We followed the cloud some more, and I was careful to keep in mind the direction we were coming from. The reserve wasn't that big, but with shelves blocking the view in every way and the lack of light, it was easy to get lost. We arrived to a set of shelves where the cloud started flowing in all directions. We had reached the section on Applied Metaphysics. Holmes shook his hand and said a word, and the cloud freed from the enchantment quickly dissipated.

"This is where the Dewey classification will be of much help, Watson. The author of the Necronomicon is presumed to be Abdul Alhazred, so I guess we will have to look for a book filed as "216something ALH"

We started perusing the shelves, and soon I found the cursed thing. Filed as 216.1.3 ALH indeed, but I would have known even without the filing system. It was an heavy tome, leather-bound and closed by metal clasps, and I felt unsettled just by approaching it. I took it out of the shelf only to find that is was chained to it.

Sherlock joined me and considered the chain. Some sleight of hands later, he had identified the curses woven in the metal. One by one, he defused them methodically while I went and kept watch below the stairs. And an hour later, it was a most regular chain, without enchantments. It was thick, but nothing we could not manage. It was my turn to work on the damn thing. I took a small metal saw out of my coat. Sherlock went to keep watch. I started cutting through one of the links of the chain. It would take some time. I was halfway through when Sherlock came to me and motioned me to stop. The guard was coming down the stairs. The noise of the saw was not audible from there, thanks to the shelves and books filling the space of the room and swallowing the sounds. We hid behind the shelves of the Applied Metaphysics section. The path of the guard went through it, and we had to silently circumnavigate some bookcases to avoid being in his sight. I thought about what it looked like from above, three humans lost in a maze of books, silently walking around to avoid crossing paths. There was probably a metaphor about the human condition to be made, but it was the middle of the night and I had a chain to keep sawing through. Half an hour later I was done. Sherlock took off his coat and jacket. I strapped the book to his back, and he put back his clothes. He took a few steps. The bump made by the book was quite noticeable.

"This will not do."

He paused, and suddenly looked very thoughtful. He moved his arms and his neck with an eerie slowness. He shifted on his feet, rotated his hips. He seemed completely focused on the place of his body in space.

"Yes". He took some more steps, his gait completely changed. The book could as well have disappeared. He turned to me.

"Good?"

I nodded. "That's astonishing, Holmes."

"Practice, practice and practice, my dear Watson. Any ballet dancer could achieve the same result."

"Yes, and they train for years."

"As I said, practice."

I shook my head. I knew Sherlock, there was no point arguing with his displays of false modesty. And we had to go back into hiding. I moved a few shelves away, and searched until I found a book who bore enough resemblance to the Necronomicon. I put it where the stolen book had been, and put the chain under it. It should be enough to fool anyone passing alongside, but would not resist for a second to a more thorough examination. We had to hope no scholar would request the volume for the next few days.


	5. Where we finally meet the Honourable Correspondent

We went back upstairs, and each to our respective reading room. I gave back his watch to Sherlock on the way. It was around three in the morning. We had not been spotted, and would not need our contingency escapes. Through the window of the Agriculture room, I signalled with a candle to the man waiting in the alley below. He nodded and went away. The carriage set up by the Restaurationists would wait no longer.

The Library opened at nine. I could catch some more sleep and Sherlock some more insomnia. He would come out of the library around ten, I would wait until ten and a half. I found a confortable enough position and drifted away.

I woke up at eight thirty. The sound of the librarians preparing the place for the opening were coming faintly through. Someone entered the room, dusted the immaculate reading tables, then went away. I waited until nine and a quarter. The room was still empty. I came out of the curtain, and quickly checked myself for dust. I grabbed a book on a shelf and got out of the room. I looked at what I had borrowed while coming down the stairs. _Corn crops in America, 1750 - 1850_. How thrilling. I glanced across the room. Sherlock was already seated at a table with some newspapers. I seated at another one with my book. I skimmed it to look busy, but charts and tables of cornfield yields interested me very little. I grabbed some newspapers myself. Around ten, I went and asked some information to the doorman to distract him from watching the door. Sherlock exited the library without any problem. Our operation was a success. I still had to go out, but since he was the one carrying the book, this was a simple formality. I forced myself to wait, and exited around twenty past ten. I went to our meeting point, a pub a few streets away. Sherlock was waiting with a mug of mulled wine and a pipe of opium.

I sat with him.

"All good?"

"Yes. I went to the loo and unstrapped the book. It's in my bag. Do you want some mulled wine as well, Watson? There is reason to celebrate."

"Indeed there is. Drinks are on me. If you could be so kind as to hand me over your bag, though..."

Holmes and I suddenly stared at the woman who had spoken this last phrase. She was seating at the nearest table, dressed entirely in black and smiling at us. She was beautiful, and the quality of her clothing indicated she had her habits in the upper stratas of society, but she blended in and seemed completely at ease in this lowly pub.

I had my knife in my right hand and was considering the most discreet way to take her out.

She stood up, motioned to the barmaid. "Three mulled wines, dear. And some scrambled eggs. With a basket of bread."

She invited herself at our table. "I suggest you take the knife away, sir. There is certain precautions I've taken before coming here. If I fail to signal to some persons, Her Majesty's Inquisitors would get a nice tip about the names and whereabouts of a few Restaurationists. You know this is no idle threat, since I have gone to great length to demonstrate my knowledge of several of them."

Sherlock took a sip of his mug. He put his hand on my arm to signal me to get the knife away, and he leaned forward.

"The Honourable Correspondent, I presume. You have me intrigued. What is your angle here? Why spy on us and then reveal yourself?"

"The reveal is an act of good faith. For the spying, let's say I needed insurance. A double insurance. My offer was legitimate. I have the security details here, and I do have use for the book. At the same time, I needed more details about the Restaurationists."

"You have our faces. That's not much."

"Please. If I was able to infer how you would go about stealing the book, and to guess that it was you who did it just by watching the coming and going at the Library's main doors, surely you know that I am able to deduce much more information. Especially, given the time it took you to arrive in London, and the color of... " - she reached out and touch a stain of my overcoat - "...this patch of mud, I am now certain of the Baskervilles implication in the Restaurationist movement."

The barmaid arrived then. We stayed silent while she served the eggs. I drank a bit of wine. The heat was invigorating. I considered taking her out again. The secrecy of the Baskervilles Restaurationist ties was just too important. 

"Let me assure you that my sympathy goes to the Restaurationists. The intelligence I sent you over the years proves it. Simply, I cannot trust blindly, and I wanted to be sure not to end up some collateral damage of your actions. Now that the public release of this information hangs in the balance, I trust you'll make sure I won't be caught in crossfires."

"Put it in another way, you live a comfortable life amongst the parasitic monsters of the Court, and you have no intent to stop doing so."

"Well, how would i give you intelligence otherwise?"

"Would it be fair to assume that if I was to cross-reference all the intelligence you sent to the Restaurationists, I'd realise it helped specifically with the removal of Court members that were in your path?"

"For the most part, yes. But wasn't it useful to you anyway? Mutual benefice is not to be frowned upon. And I'll add that I also facilitated the removal of the most madness-thirsty ones, whether or not it was of interest for me. I have my ethics too."

Holmes stayed silent. I seized the opportunity to speak.

"And why do you need the book?"

"As I said, double insurance. The first part was insurance against Restaurationists, but the second is insurance against Royals. I cannot always wait for you to take action if one of the Nephews I interact with becomes too insistent with me. The book will provide me with means of dealing with them on my own."

"When you say they 'interact with'..."

"You cannot do what you do without knowing that the Royals feast on specific dispositions of the mind. Madness is the most common one, but not the only one. I provide such dispositions." She pointed to Holmes. "As could you, sir."

I hissed. "Sherlock would never... pimp himself to the Royals".

She stared at me icily "Careful with the language you use, Rache. I'm not questioning your lover's moral principles, just pointing out his abilities. Anyway, I intend to keep on doing what I do under my own conditions. Some Royals seem to have difficulties understanding that humans - especially women - might be attached to their independence. Some humans have the same difficulties."

Some more silence ensued. She rummaged in her handbag and got a manilla folder out. She set it on the table and pushed it toward me.

"The security detail promised. Could I have the book? You're useful to me alive and taking out Royals. I'm useful to you alive and getting intelligence out of the Court. The book will increase my ability to do so. I have come here in good faith and shown my face, when I could have gotten the same information from afar. Be sensible now."

She was right. I took the bag out of under Sherlock's chair and handed it to her. She nodded in return. Sherlock pocketed the folder. 

"How do we reach out if we need to?"

"You don't. I'll be in touch, not the other way around."

She stood up, left enough money on the table to pay for the three of us and got out of the pub. We watched her depart. After some time Holmes handed me the folder and relit his opium pipe.

"What a woman. What a incredible woman." He drew a lungful of opium and his pupils contracted. I shot him a disapproving look that he ignored completely. But he took my hand in his, and squeezed gently, a reassurance of his love for me. 

"Well now Watson. We might as well finish these eggs. We have some busy days ahead of us if we want to have a chance to take out the Black One, and we'd better be in our best shapes!" Acting accordingly, he took a generous forkful of scrambled eggs as I started to study the content of the folder, his hand still holding mine.

**\-- THE END --**

**Author's Note:**

> Dear katherine_tag,
> 
> This was my first Yuletide, it was fun to do. Thanks for the indications of your likes and dislike, it was the perfect level of details to give me some ideas and get me going (mine were much more generic and not very helpful I think). I had fun writing the story, I hope you'll like it. I stuck to the Gaiman story canon as much as possible, took more liberty with the Sherlock canon.  
> Let me know what you think of it, and happy Yuletide!
> 
> And thanks to [Beatrice_Sank](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/) for the beta-reading.


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